by Alice Duncan
About darned time. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. What…That is to say, why did they do that?” I’d been about to ask what her disgusting daughter had done to warrant such punishment, but this was the disgusting daughter’s mother, so I didn’t.
“They claimed she hit another inmate! Oh, Daisy! I can’t even visit her!”
As Stacy had conked me over the head with a kitchen chair once, I could easily believe the Stacy-striking-someone part of this scenario. Another part of it puzzled me, however. “Have you been visiting her?”
“Well…” Mrs. P hesitated. “Not really, but I’ve been sending emissaries.”
Aha. Thought as much. Harold had told me his mother wouldn’t be caught dead visiting anyone in jail. “And they aren’t allowed to see her while she’s in solitary confinement?”
“No!”
For the record, I always prepared myself for Mrs. P’s answers to any of my questions by holding the earpiece a foot or so away from my ear. While I’ll always appreciate Mrs. Pinkerton for wasting so much of her money on me, I didn’t want to lose my hearing because of her. “Would you like me to bring Rolly over for a visit?” I asked gently and soothingly. I always spoke to her thus in the unceasing hope she’d one day take the hint and stop screeching into the telephone. That day my hint didn’t work any better than it ever had, which was never.
“Oh, would you, dear? That would be so kind of you!”
So I did. I already wore a suitable costume for performing my duties as a spiritualist-medium, so I merely picked up my handbag, bade my father and my dog a fond farewell and exited the side door. Our side porch led to the driveway, where our almost-new Chevrolet sat.
As part of my adieus, I said to my male kin, “I’m so sorry I have to leave you again, Pa and Spike. I’d much rather be home with you than visiting Missus Pinkerton, especially when she’s in a tizzy like this one.”
“It’s your job, sweetie,” said Pa, who understood the working classes. “Although it sounded as though you were enjoying yourself at Missus Mainwaring’s house today.”
His words brought a smile to my lips. “Oh, I did enjoy myself. She’s a lovely woman. I hope— Never mind.” It wasn’t my place to tell other people’s stories to my father. My dog, maybe, but not my father. Not that Pa would blab, but Spike couldn’t blab, so he was a safer bet.
In any case, spiritualism was total nonsense.
This fact didn’t negate the itchy feeling I got when I recalled what the tarot cards and the Ouija board had told Mrs. Mainwaring. I hoped she wasn’t really in for a hard time ahead.
I spent the remainder of the morning and most of my afternoon condoling with Mrs. Pinkerton. First she wanted to ask Rolly questions. Then she wanted to ask the tarot cards questions. Then she asked if I’d brought my crystal ball, and when I said I hadn’t, she burst into tears. Oh, boy, what a jolly time.
“I’m so sorry, Missus Pinkerton. I didn’t realize you’d want a reading from the crystal ball. If I’d known, I’d have brought it with me. Although,” I said because it was true and because I wanted her to know, confound it, “it’s very difficult for me to lift that heavy ball, even now.”
“Oh, dear, really? Because of that ghastly accident you had?”
It hadn’t been an accident. What’s more, I had good reason to believe her daughter had been mixed up in it, even though none of the main players had turned out to be in Stacy’s direct employ. “Yes. Only it wasn’t an accident. Someone ran into me with that motorcar on purpose and squashed me up against a pepper tree, thereby dislocating my left shoulder, which is still awfully tender. My fiancé remains quite worried about my overall health and has asked me not to lift heavy things.” Mind you, Sam had never said any such thing, but the sentiment sounded good. Sam was much more likely to tell me not to be an idiot and quit trying to lift the damned ball. I didn’t say things like that, being a well-brought-up Methodist girl.
“What a sweet man!” cried Mrs. Pinkerton who, until recently, hadn’t been able to recall Sam’s last name. If she even made a stab at it, she’d call him Mr. Rotund or something equally appalling.
“He’s very sweet to me,” I said, smiling gently and wondering why some women had such good luck in finding good men and others didn’t.
On the other hand, Sam and I had loathed each other upon first meeting, and I’d continued to dislike him after he’d overcome his dislike of me. Anyhow, the person of whom I’d thought when I thought that thought—the thought about some women being bad selectors-of-mates—was Miss Betsy Powell. Miss Betsy Powell had been in love with at least three honest-to-goodness rats, two of whom had murdered people. Was that just lousy luck on her part? Or was there something inside a person’s innermost workings that accounted for his or her attraction to good or awful people? Not that it matters. I attempted to focus my wandering wits on the matter at hand.
“I’m so happy for you, Daisy!” Mrs. Pinkerton gasped through her sobs. “My Algie is good to me, too.”
Truer words had seldom been spoken. Mrs. Pinkerton’s second husband, Mr. Algernon Pinkerton, was a kind and loyal man. Round and roly-poly, he had a cherubic pink face, a vast fortune, and two relatively nice sons who played polo. Mrs. P’s first husband—whom she’d divorced for excellent reasons—Mr. Eustace Kincaid, had been a total rotter. I think Stacy came by her beastly qualities from her father, while Harold came by his sterling ones via his mother. Only Harold also possessed more than a few brain cells to rub together, unlike Mrs. P. Not sure about Stacy’s overall intelligence, although her behavior always had been and continued to be abominable.
“I know he is, Missus Pinkerton, and everyone who loves you is happy you found each other.” Was that too mawkish? Naw. This was Mrs. Pinkerton. She and mawkishness went together like bacon and eggs. Or French toast and syrup. Or…Well, you get the idea.
By the time this conversation took place, I was about to fall over from starvation. Not literally, but I’d missed lunch, and I was awfully hungry.
During a surreptitious glance at my wristwatch, which Mrs. P wasn’t supposed to see but did, she screeched, “Oh! But I’ve kept you forever! Oh, Daisy, I’m so sorry! Please, please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Missus Pinkerton. You were having a difficult time, and I’m always available for you when you need me.” Sam might eventually have something to say about my general accessibility, but he didn’t yet.
“Why don’t you go to the kitchen and see if your aunt can fix you a snack or something? Oh, dear, I feel so guilty about keeping you so long!” More tears followed the riverbed pattern her earlier ones had etched in her formerly impeccably made-up face.
“Nonsense. But I will pop in and see Vi if you don’t mind. It’s about time for her to leave, and I’d be happy to drive her home.”
“Wonderful idea! Here, dear. Something extra for always being such a special friend to me in my time of need.”
And darned if she didn’t hand me a hundred bucks. I swear, the woman threw money around as if it were confetti. After I’d almost been murdered on New Year’s Day, she’d sent Harold over with not only tons of gifts, but five hundred dollars! For no reason whatsoever, except that she was a big-hearted woman. Which made sense, as the rest of her was also quite portly.
Good Lord! How unkind can one normally pleasant and compassionate spiritualist-medium be, anyway? Awfully unkind, evidently, although I think starvation had something to do with my evil mood that afternoon.
At any rate, after I finally escaped from Mrs. Pinkerton’s drawing room—which, in our family, is a living room; in Mrs. Mainwaring’s house, it’s the front parlor—I all but staggered down the hall to the kitchen, passing Edie Applewood on the way. Edie and I had been schoolmates once upon a time, and now she worked as Mrs. P’s lady’s maid. Her husband, Quincy, worked as the caretaker for Mr. Pinkerton’s sons’ horses.
“Hey, Daisy,” said Edie, smiling broadly. “I’ll bet you had a heck of a time in there today.”
<
br /> “You’d win your bet,” I told her. “How are you and Quincy holding up?”
“Oh, we’re fine, thanks. Poor Missus P has been in an awful flap ever since that disgusting daughter of hers got herself locked up.” She shook her head. “I know Missus Pinkerton’s a nincompoop, but she’s a nice lady and really doesn’t deserve Stacy.”
“Nobody does. I’m sorry the brat’s such a sore trial to Missus P.”
“Yeah. Me, too. But I’d better get on upstairs. I expect I’ll have to re-do milady’s makeup before dinner tonight.”
“Somebody had better re-do it. Her poor face looks like someone painted riverbeds on it from all the crying she’s done today.”
With a laugh, Edie tripped up the servants’ staircase, and I pushed open the swing door leading to the kitchen. Vi was delighted to see me.
As for me, I was delighted with the supremely delicious aromas emanating from the cardboard box in which Vi had packed the Gumm-Majesty-Rotondo-Prophet dinner. My goodness, but life could be complicated sometimes, couldn’t it? We used to be just the Gumms and the Majestys. Then we were the Gumms, Majestys and Rotondo. And now Lou Prophet had more or less joined the family. That was all right by me. I liked Mr. Prophet, even if he was something of an anachronism in staid, peaceful, refined Pasadena.
That evening I stuffed myself at the dinner table, winning odd looks from my family and a gentle reproof from my mother, who said, “Goodness, Daisy, how many people are you eating for?” Then she blushed, because the words she’d spoken might have implied I was “with child,” as the picturesque saying has it.
Lou Prophet attempted to smother his chuff of amusement, and Sam gave me a sharp glance.
Fiddlesticks. “I missed lunch today, Ma,” I said, whining only slightly. “And I’m starving to death. Well, not really.” Defiantly, I snatched another biscuit from the bread basket, broke it in half, and slathered butter on it. I did all this whilst displaying excellent manners, too. No slovenly dining for Daisy Gumm Majesty, spiritualist-medium extraordinaire, by golly.
“I like to see a lady with a good appetite,” said Mr. Prophet, grinning wickedly.
“Me, too,” said Sam, although he didn’t sound exactly sure of himself.
“Anyhow, Vi’s beef stew is one of the marvels of the modern world, and I should think you’d be glad I appreciate it so much.” Turning from my wonderful mother to my wonderful aunt, I said, “Thank you so much, Vi. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Yes, well, that’s the truth,” admitted Ma. “I’m just not accustomed to seeing you eat so much at a meal. I didn’t realize you missed lunch. How did that happen?”
“Missus Pinkerton.”
Solemn nods followed this two-word answer. Everyone understood. Mrs. Pinkerton had been part of our family’s history for more than half my life.
“And before Missus P, I spent a good part of the morning with Missus Mainwaring. Her reading turned out to be…well, not great. According to the tarot cards and Rolly, someone from her past is going to show up and cause trouble for her.”
“Her past?” Lou Prophet squinted at me.
“Yes. Her past in Arizona. And, according to Rolly, a couple of other places, too.”
“Arizona, eh? What did you say this lady’s name was again?” he asked, his brow furrowing, as if he were trying to place her in his memory.
“Mainwaring. Evangeline Mainwaring.”
Prophet chewed over the name as he chewed on his biscuit, then swallowed and shook his head. “Never met anyone by that name.”
“I guess Arizona is a big place,” I said.
“Not that many places fit to live in there, though,” Prophet said
“Anyhow, after we finished with the cards and the board, she let me play her grand piano!”
“What fun for you,” said Ma.
Almost under his breath, Mr. Prophet said, “A piano-playing lady sounds like someone I might have known way back in my prime, but I still don’t recollect that name.”
“They sang together, too, and sounded terrific,” said Pa.
“How do you know that?” Ma asked my father rather sharply.
“Daisy was gone for so long, and Missus Pinkerton called so often and sounded so desperate, Spike and I went down the street to fetch her home again.”
“Oh,” said Ma, who had met Mrs. Mainwaring and knew her to be a genuine beauty. I don’t think she was jealous, but I wasn’t certain. Feeling insecure about one’s partner in life was one of the easier traps in which to fall. I knew that from bitter experience. Humiliatingly bitter experience, even.
“After you’ve finished shoveling chow, Daisy, I’d like the whole family—and, of course, Lou—to walk across the street and see the latest thing I’ve done in the house,” said Sam, grinning and trying to sound enigmatic.
“What do you mean, ‘done in the house,’ Sam?” I asked. Done in the house? Hmm. Wasn’t sure I liked the sound of his comment. When Spike was a puppy, he had done a few things in the house for which I’d had to scold him.
“You’ll see,” said Sam, still mysterious.
“You’ll like it,” said Mr. Prophet, grinning as he buttered yet another biscuit. How come Ma didn’t ask him why he was eating so darned much?
Never mind.
“That’s nice to know,” I said uncertainly.
“You’ll like it,” said Sam, echoing Mr. Prophet. “I can guarantee it.”
“Goodness, you two men sound so…What’s the word? Mystifying? I guess that’s the word I mean,” said Vi, working on her own second bowlful of her amazing beef stew.
In other words, it wasn’t just I who was making a pig of myself that evening. We all were, and I thought my mother’s comment about me stuffing myself and perhaps “eating for more than one” had been unwarranted.
“Mystifying works,” I said, my curiosity whizzing out of control.
I needn’t have worried. Not that I had worried. Exactly. Still…I wasn’t altogether certain I approved of Sam’s ability to keep secrets from me. I would, after all, sooner or later become his wife and his partner in life. This would make the third or fourth surprise he’d sprung on me since we got engaged. Mind you, all the surprises had been good so far, but… Well, I don’t suppose it matters.
Leaving the dishes soaking in the sink, my family and I walked across the street. Lou Prophet opened the gate enclosing the porch, and we trooped inside. Instantly, I saw Sam’s surprise.
“Sam! You bought a piano!”
“A baby grand,” he said, attempting to sound modest, “because a grown-up grand would, I thought, be too big to look good in this room. But if you want a grand piano, I’ll get you one. I figured you’d enjoy having a piano of your own.”
“I love it!” I all but shrieked with delight. “Oh, Sam, you’re so good to me!”
I turned and threw my arms around him before he could say, “Damned right,” so Lou Prophet said it for him.
Nobody seemed to mind Mr. Prophet’s profanity. Truth to tell, we were all pretty much used to his foul mouth by this time. And this, in spite of the fact that he honestly attempted not to swear when in our company. He’d led a wild and woolly, not to mention adventurous, life before he ended up in Pasadena, California. He belonged in Pasadena kind of like a feral hog belonged in a bed of pansies. Not that he was porky. Far from it.
A chorus of delighted thanks issued from my parents and aunt. Sam, trying to detach me and still striving for modesty, told them it was nothing, and that their daughter deserved the very best.
“She does,” my father concurred.
“Oh, yes,” said Vi.
“Hmmm,” said Ma.
But she was pleased, too; I could tell.
“I had a piano-tuner come along with the instrument, so it should be ready to go,” said Sam.
“I know we still have to do the dishes and it’s getting kind of late, but would anyone mind if I played a tune or two?”
No one minded. At least they
didn’t say so aloud. Lou Prophet went so far as to say he liked him a good tune every now and then. He’d said that before.
Therefore, after I’d played the scales and a few chords—the piano sounded grand even if it wasn’t—I played a hymn I knew by heart, “Amazing Grace.” Then, because it was bouncy, I could recall the music, and both Sam and Lou had sung it once when I’d played it on my parents’ piano, I struck the opening chords for “Tea for Two.” Darned if the two men didn’t sing it again!
That turned out to be one of the best evenings of my entire life. The only thing that would have made it better was if I could have remained in Sam’s house and not gone across the street to wash the dishes.
Oh, well. One of these days…
Seven
The baby grand piano—a Baldwin, for goodness’ sake—turned out to be the last surprise I received from Sam during the week before our neighborhood party for Angie Mainwaring. Ma and Vi both worked during the day. As Sam also held a day job, even though he didn’t need it—I’m honestly not avaricious, but knowing Sam had money gave me such a profound sense of security, it’s almost impossible to describe—it was Harold Kincaid and I who took responsibility for arranging the party.
Besides all that, Sam had told me more than once he didn’t know beans about party-planning, didn’t want to learn, why the heck else would he have suggested the Castleton cater this one, and also why the heck else would he have asked me to call Harold about it? Only he didn’t use the word “heck.” At any rate, I considered his questions valid. Lou Prophet did a good job of staying out of our way. He appeared a trifle worried, though, as if he feared we might ask him to do something—tell us what our color scheme should be; or, maybe, would he mind donning a waiter’s livery and serve guests. Although we hadn’t discussed the matter, I figured his party-planning skills and interest in same were about on a par with Sam’s.
Wow! I just used a golfing term. And I don’t even know anyone who plays golf. I tell you, the reading of novels is educational, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
